"And you think that would be fair to the one who ought to have had themedal?"

"If he was much of a man he didn't paint just for the medal," returnedMadeline quickly. "He painted because he couldn't help it,--because hemeant to make the most of himself,--and a medal more or less--what's thatto him?" She turned upon Betty suddenly. "Don't you see that the greatfault with the life here is that we think too little about living and toomuch about getting? These societies and clubs and teams and committees--they're not the best things in life; they're nothing, except what theystand for in character and industry and talent. No, I shouldn't worrybecause Eleanor Watson got into Dramatic Club, if that's what you mean,and may get into other things because she cribbed a story. That very factwill take all the fun out of it, unless she's beneath caring,--but sheisn't beneath caring," Madeline corrected herself swiftly. "No one with aface like hers is beyond caring. It's the most beautiful face I eversaw--and one of the saddest."

"Thank you very much, Madeline," said Betty, soberly. "I'm so glad Icould talk it over with you."

Madeline was never serious for long at a time. "I've been preachingregular sermons," she said with a laugh. "The thing I don't understand iswhy this editor of 'The Quiver' hasn't jumped on Miss Watson long ago.Editors are always reading college magazines--hoping to discover agenius, I suppose."

"Are they?" said Betty.

A tap sounded on the door.

"Don't worry, whatever else you do,--and hide your magazine," saidMadeline, and was off with a cheerful greeting for Helen Adams, who hadcome back from her afternoon at T. Reed's crammed full of Napoleonic loreand basket-ball news.

"Theresa had made a table of dates and events," said Helen eagerly. "Icopied it for you--it's lots of help. And Betty, she says the teams aregoing to be chosen soon, and she is almost sure you will be on."

Madeline Ayres wondered idly, as she dressed for dinner, how Betty Waleshad come into possession of a four months' old magazine which was not tobe had at any library or book-store in Harding. Then, being a personborn, so she herself asserted, entirely without curiosity, she ceasedwondering. By the time dinner was over and she had related a budget ofher Napoleonic stories to a delighted group of anxious students, she hadactually forgotten all about Eleanor's affairs.

CHAPTER XII

A BRIEF FOR THE DEFENSE

"DEAR DOROTHY-- "I have thought and thought all the afternoon and I can't do it. I shouldonly--"

"DEAR DOROTHY- "If you are perfectly sure that there is nobody else to go--"

"DEAR DOROTHY-- "Don't you think that Mary Brooks or Marion Lawrence would be a lotbetter? Mary can always talk--"

"Oh, Dorothy, I don't know what to say--"

Betty had slipped up-stairs to her room the minute dinner was over. Therest of the Belden House girls still lingered in the parlors, talking ordancing,--enjoying the brief after-dinner respite that is a welcomefeature of each busy day at Harding. Ida Ludwig was playing for them. Shehad a way of dashing off waltzes and two-steps that gave them a perfectlyirresistible swing. As Betty wrote, her foot beat time to the music thatfloated up, faint and sweet and alluring, through her half-open door. Thefloor around her was strewn with sheets of paper which she had torn, oneafter another, from her pad, and tossed impatiently out of her way.

"Such a goose as I am, trying to write before I've made up my mind whatto say!" she told the green lizard, as she sent the seventh attemptflying after the others. "And I can't make it up," she addeddespondently, and shut her fountain pen with a vicious little snap. Shewould go down and have a two-step with Roberta, who had been Mary's guestat dinner. Roberta could lead beautifully--as well as a man--and themusic was too good to lose. Besides, Roberta might feel hurt at herhaving run off the minute dinner was over.

A shadow suddenly darkened the door and Betty turned to find EleanorWatson standing there, smiling radiantly down at her.

"Eleanor!" she gasped helplessly. Somehow the sight of the real Eleanor,smiling and lovely, made the deceit she had practiced seem so much moreconcrete and palpable, the penalty she must pay at best so much more realand dreadful. Betty had puzzled over the rights and wrongs of the matteruntil it had come to be almost an abstraction--a subject for formal,impersonal debate, like those they used to discuss in the junior Englishclasses, in high school days--"Resolved: that it is right to helpplagiarists to try again." Now the reality of it all was forced upon her.In spite of her surprise at seeing Eleanor, who almost never came to herroom now, and her dismay that she should have come on this evening inparticular, she found time to be glad that she had not yet refusedDorothy's request--and time to be a little ashamed of herself for beingso glad.

Her perturbation showed so plainly in her face and manner that Eleanorcould not fail to notice it. Her smile vanished and a troubled look stoleinto her gray eyes. "May I come in, Betty?" she asked. "Or are you toobusy?"

Eleanor glanced at the floor, littered with all Betty's futilebeginnings, and her smile came flashing back again. "I should think," shesaid, "that you must be writing a love letter--if it isn't a sonnet--judging by the trouble it's making you. They told me downstairs that youwere cramming history, but I was sure it would take more than a merehistory cram to keep you away from that music. Isn't it lovely?"

"Yes," said Betty. "Would you like--shan't we go down and dance?" Itwould surely be easier to talk down there, with plenty of people aboutwho did not know.

Again her embarrassment and constraint were too evident to be ignored,and this time Eleanor went straight to the heart of the matter.

"Betty," she said, "don't tell me that you're not glad to see me backagain after all this time. I know I'm queer and horrid and not worthbothering about, but when you find it out,--when you give me up--you andJim--I shall stop trying to be different."

For an instant Betty hesitated. Then the full import of Eleanor's wordsflashed upon her. There was no mistaking their sincerity. She knew atlast that she did "really mean something" to somebody. Ethel Hale hadbeen wrong. Eleanor had not forgotten her old friends--and Betty would goto New York. With a happy little cry she stretched out her arms andcaught Eleanor's hands in hers.

"I'm so glad you feel that way," she said, "and I shall never stop caringwhat you do, Eleanor, and neither will Jim. I know he won't."

"He gave me up once before, and if you knew something--" She broke offsuddenly. "Betty, Jim is coming Friday night. That's one reason why I'mhere. I didn't want him to miss seeing you just because I'd beendisagreeable and was too proud to come and say I'm sorry. I am sorry,Betty,--I'm always sorry when it's just too late."

"Oh, that's all right. I knew you didn't mean anything," said Betty,hastily. Apologies always made her nervous, and this particular one wasfraught with unpleasant suggestions little guessed at by its maker."You'll be awfully glad to see your brother, won't you?"

"What are you going to do to entertain him?" asked Betty, wishing tochange the current of Eleanor's thoughts, since she did not dare tosympathize with them.

Eleanor detailed her plans, explained that Judge Watson had suddenly beencalled home from Cornell and so was not coming with Jim, according to thesummer plan that Betty remembered, and rose to go. "I know you'll likeJim, Betty," she said, "and he'll like you. He's your kind."

The moment she was left alone, Betty sat down again at her desk anddashed off her note to Dorothy.

"Dear Dorothy:

"I have thought it over and seen Eleanor. I am the one to go, and I'll domy best.

"Yours ever,

"Betty.

"P.S.--I can't start till Wednesday."

She twisted the note into a neat little roll, and slipping out the backway went down to leave it at the florist's, to be sent to Dorothy--securely hidden in a big bunch of English violets, lest any martinet of anurse should see fit to suppress it--the very first thing in the morning.On the way back to her room she danced up the stairs in her most joyousfashion, and when Mary Brooks, coming up from escorting Roberta to thedoor, intercepted her and demanded where she had been all the evening,she chanted, "Curiosity killed a cat," and fled from Mary's wrath with alittle shriek of delight, exactly as if there were no such things in theworld as plagiarism and hard-hearted editors. For had not Eleanor comeback to her, and was not the difficult decision made at last?

And yet, when Betty was a senior and took the course in Elizabethantragedies, she always thought of the visit of Jim Watson as a perfectexample in real life of the comic interlude, by which the king ofElizabethan dramatists is wont to lighten, and at the same time toaccentuate, his analyses of the bitter consequences of wrong-doing. Forclose upon her first great relief at finding her decision made, followeda sudden realization that the incident was not yet closed. Madeline hadread the November "Quiver"; some less charitable person might have donelikewise. If she had been careless in leaving her magazine in sight, somight one of the three editors have been careless, with disastrousresults. Mr. Blake might write to the college authorities. Everything, inshort, might come out before Jim Watson had finished his week-end visitto Harding. Helping to entertain him seemed therefore a good deal likeamusing oneself on the verge of a crackling volcano.

Jim's personality made it all the harder; he was so boyishly light-hearted, so tremendously proud of Eleanor, so splendid and downrighthimself, with a flash in his fine eyes--the only feature in which heresembled Eleanor--and a quiver about his sensitive mouth, that suggestedhow deep would be his grief and how unappeasable his anger, if he everfound out with what coin his sister had bought her college honors.

He "blew in," to use his own phrase for it, on an earlier train thanEleanor had expected, and marched up to the Hilton House with a jauntyair of perfect ease and assurance. But really, he confided to Eleanor, hewas in a "blooming blue funk" all the way.

"And what do you think?" he added ruefully, "somehow I got mixed up withthe matron or whatever you call her. I thought, you see, that this waslike a boarding-school, and that I'd got to have some gorgon or othervouch for me before I could see you. So I asked for her first, and she'sinvited me to dinner. Did you say there were thirty girls in this house?Sixty! I see my finish!" concluded Jim, dolefully.

Nevertheless he rose to the occasion and, ensconced between Eleanor andthe matron he entertained the latter, and incidentally the whole table,with tales of mountain-climbing, broncho-busting and bear-hunting, thatmade him at once a hero in the eyes of the girls. But Jim disclaimed allintention of following up his conquest, just as he had, thoughineffectually, disclaimed any part in the thrilling escapades of hisstories.

"I can talk to a bunch of girls if I have to, but if you leave me alonewith one, I shall do the scared rabbit act straight back to Cornell," hewarned Eleanor. "I came to see you. Dad and I compared notes and wedecided that something was up."

"I should think so," retorted Jim, savagely. "Quit it, Eleanor. If youbreak down, what good will it do you to have written a fine story? Isay"--his tone was reproachful--"one of those girls at the dinner yougave last night said your story was printed somewhere, and you never sentit to dad and me. You never even told us about it."

"It wasn't worth while."

"You might let us decide about that. The girl at the dinner said it was acorker, and got you into some swell club or other. That's another thingyou didn't write us about."

Jim, who remembered exactly what his fair informant had said regardingthe importance of a Dramatic Club "first election," knit his brows andwondered which of them was right. Finally he gave up the perplexingquestion and went off to order a farewell box of roses for his sister.

It was at about this time that Betty Wales, going sorrowfully to pay abook bill that was twice as large as she had anticipated, heard swift,determined steps behind her, and turned to find Jim Watson swinging afterher down Main Street.

"I say, Miss Wales," he began, blushing hotly at his own temerity,"Eleanor is off at a class this hour. I'm such a duffer with girls--is itall right for me to ask you to go for a walk?"

"Of course," said Betty, laughing. "And if you ask me, I'll go."

"Then," said Jim, "I do ask you. You'll have to pick out a trail, for Idon't know the country."

"Let's walk out to the river," suggested Betty. "It's not so very prettyat this season of the year, but it's our prize walk, so you ought to seeit anyhow."

Silently Jim fell into step beside her.

"Have you had a good time?" inquired Betty, who had decided by this timethat Jim really enjoyed talking, only he couldn't manage it without agood deal of help. She had seen more of him in the three days of hisvisit than any one else but Eleanor, but this was their first tete-a-tete. Hitherto, when Eleanor was busy Jim had gone on solitary tramps orsought the friendly shelter of his hotel.

"You're very fond of Eleanor, aren't you?" asked Betty, sure that thistopic would draw him out.

"You bet." Jim's eyes shone with pleasure. "Eleanor's a trump when shegets started. She was splendid at home this summer. Of course you know"--Jim flushed again under his tan-"my mother--I'm awfully fond of her too,but of course her being so young makes it queer for Eleanor. But Eleanorfixed everything all right. She made dad and me, and mother too, justfall dead in love with her. You know the way she can."

Betty nodded. "I know."

"And I guess she's made good here, too," said Jim, proudly, "though you'dnever find it out from her. Do you know, Miss Wales, she never wrote us aword about her story that came out in the college magazine."

"Didn't she?" said Betty, faintly.

"Nor about getting into some club," continued Jim, earnestly. "I forgetthe name, but you'll know. Isn't it considered quite an honor?"

So he listened with deferential attention while Betty tried to tell himhow lovely the snowy meadows and the bleak, ice-bound river looked on abright June day, and carefully followed her lead as she turned theconversation from river scenery to skating and canoeing; so that theyreached home without a second approach to the dangerous topics.

Jim was going back to his work that evening. As he said good-bye, hecrushed Betty's hand in a bear-like grip that fairly brought tears to hereyes.

"I'm awfully glad to have met you," he said, "though I don't supposeyou'd ever guess it--I'm such a duffer with girls. Eleanor told me howyou stuck by her last year and helped her get her start. I tell you weappreciate anything that's done for Eleanor, dad and I do."

As Betty watched him stride off to the Hilton House, she rememberedMadeline's advice. "I guess she isn't enjoying her honors very much," shethought. "Imagine getting into Dramatic Club and not writing home aboutit! Why, I should telegraph! And if I had a thing in the 'Argus'"--Bettysmiled at the absurdity of the idea--"half the fun would be to see Nan'sface. And if I was ashamed to see her face!"

Betty gave a sigh of relief that the comic interlude was over. Underordinary circumstances the entertaining of Jim would have been the heightof bliss. Just now all she wanted was to go to New York and get backagain, with her errand done and one source of danger to Eleanor, ifpossible, eliminated.

Jim left Harding on Tuesday evening. Wednesday morning bright and early,Betty started for New York. She went by the early train for two reasons.It was easier to slip away unquestioned during chapel-time, andfurthermore she meant to reach New York in time to see Mr. Blake thatsame afternoon and take the sleeper back to Harding. She thought thatspending the night with any of her New York cousins would involve toomuch explanation, and besides she could sleep beautifully on the train,and she wanted to be back in time for the Thursday basket-ball practice.The girls played every day now, and very often Miss Andrews dropped in towatch them and take the measure of the various aspirants for a place onthe official teams, which it would soon be her duty to appoint.

CHAPTER XIII

VICTORY OR DEFEAT

During the first part of her journey Betty busied herself with readingover Mr. Blake's two letters and the lengthy replies that the editors hadcomposed. These last were as totally unlike as their writers, and Bettythought that none of them hit the point so well as Madeline'ssuggestions, and none was so cogent as the plea that Eleanor and Jimbetween them had unconsciously made; but they might all help. From Mr.Blake's two letters she decided that he must be a very queer sort ofperson, and she devoutly hoped that his conversational style would beless obscure than that of his first letter to Frances West; for it wouldbe dreadful, she thought, if she had to keep asking him what he meant.

"Well, I guess I shall just have to trust to luck and do the best I canwhen the time comes," she decided, putting the letters back into hersuit-case with a little sigh. She admired Helen Adams's way ofdeliberately preparing for a crisis, but in her own case it somehow neverseemed to work. For example, how could she plan what to say to Mr. Blakeuntil she knew what Mr. Blake would say to her? It would be bad enough totry to answer him when the time came, without worrying about it now.

After a brief survey of the flying landscape, which looked uniformly coldand uninviting under a leaden sky, and of her fellow-travelers, none ofwhom promised any possibilities of amusement, Betty remembered that shehad intended to study all the way to New York, and accordingly extractedChaucer's "Canterbury Tales" from her bag. For half an hour she read theKnight's tale busily. But the adventures of Palamon and Arcite,deciphered by means of assiduous reference to the glossary, were notexciting; at the end of the half hour Betty's head drooped back againstthe plush cushions, her eyes closed, and her book slid unheeded to thefloor. Regardless of all the elegant leisure that she had meant to secureby a diligent five-hour attack upon "The Canterbury Tales," Betty hadfallen fast asleep.

Some time later the jolt of the halting train woke her. She glanced ather watch--it was twelve o'clock--and looked out for the station sign.But there was no station sign and no station; only snowy fieldsstretching off to meet wooded hills on one side and the gorge of a frozenriver on the other. It had been a gray, sunless morning; now the air wasthick with snow, falling in big, lazily-moving flakes which seemedundecided whether or not the journey they were making was worth theirwhile. All this Betty saw through small bare spots on the heavily frostedcar windows. She picked up "The Canterbury Tales" from the floor wherethey had fallen, found her place and sat with her finger in the book,anxiously waiting for the train to go on. But it did not start. The otherpassengers also grew restless, and asked one another what could be thetrouble. There were plenty of guesses, but nobody knew until Bettymanaged to stop a passing brakeman and asked him if they were going to belate into New York.

"Oh, my, yes, ma'am," he assured her affably. "We're about an hour latenow, and there's no tellin' how long we'll stand here. There's been a bigblizzard and an awful freeze-up in the west--" he waved his hand at thefrosty window. "We do be gettin' a bit of it now ourselves, you see--andthe connections is all out of whack."

This was a cheerful prospect. The train was due in New York at half pastone. Allow half an hour for the present delay and it would be fully halfpast three before Betty could reach Mr. Blake's office. Besides, she hadbrought nothing to eat except some sweet chocolate, for she had plannedto get lunch in New York. It was most provoking. She settled herself oncemore, a cake of chocolate to nibble in one hand and her book in theother, resolved to endure the rest of the journey with what stoicism shemight.

Finally, after having exhausted the entire half hour that she had allowedit, the train started with a puff and a wheeze, and ambled on toward itsdestination, with frequent brief pauses to get its breath or toaccommodate the connections that were "all out of whack," and a finallong and agonizing wait in the yards. That was the last straw--to be sonear the goal and yet helplessly stranded just out of reach. Wishing toverify her own calculations, Betty leaned forward and asked afriendly-looking, gray-haired woman in the seat ahead if she knew justhow long it would take to go from the Forty-second Street station toFulton Street.

The woman considered. "Not less than three-quarters of an hour, I shouldsay, unless you took a Subway express to the bridge, and changed there.Then perhaps you might do it in half an hour."

Betty thanked her and sat back, watch in hand, counting the minutes andwondering what she would better do if she had to stay in New York allnight. In spite of some disadvantages, it would be much the best plan,she decided, to go to her cousins. But never thinking of any suchcontingency as the one that had arisen, she had left her address book atHarding, and she had a very poor memory for numbers. She rememberedvaguely one hundred twenty-one, and was sure that cousin Will Banninglived on East Seventy-second Street. But was his number one twenty-one,or was it three hundred forty-something, and Cousin Alice's one twenty-one on One Hundred and Second Street? Was that east or west, and was itCousin Alice's address before or after she moved last? The more Bettythought, and the more certain it seemed that she could not reach Mr.Blake's office by any route before five o'clock, the more confused shebecame. She had never been about in New York alone, and she had a horrorof going in the rapidly falling dusk from one number to another in astrange city, and then perhaps not finding her cousins in the end. Thenthere was nothing to do but stay at a hotel. Luckily Betty did remembervery distinctly the name of the one that Nan often stopped at alone. Sheleaned forward again and asked the lady in front to direct her to it.

"Yes, I can do that," said the lady brightly, "or if you like I can takeyou to it. I'm going there myself. Aren't you a Harding girl?"

Betty assented.

"And I'm the matron at the Davidson," said the gray-haired lady.

"You are!" Betty's tone expressed infinite relief. "And I may really comewith you? I'm so glad. I never went to a hotel alone." And she explainedbriefly why she was obliged to do so now.

The snow was still failing softly when they finally reached New York andboarded a crowded car to ride the few blocks to their hotel. It seemedthat Betty's new friend had come down to visit her son, who was ill at ahospital. She helped Betty through the trying ordeal of registering andgetting a room, and they went to the cafe together for a little supper.Then she hurried off to her son, and Betty was left to her own devices.She despatched a special-delivery letter to Helen, explaining why shecould not take the sleeper--Helen had the impression that Betty had goneto New York to have her hair waved and was ashamed to confess to suchfrivolity. Then she yawned for a while over "The Canterbury Tales," andwent to bed early, so as to be in perfect trim for the next day'sinterview. She intended to see Mr. Blake as early as possible in themorning and take a noon train for Harding.

"And I do hope there isn't going to be a blizzard here," she thought, asshe fell asleep to the angry howling of the wind, which dashed the snow,now frozen, into tiny, icy globules, against her window panes.

But her hope was not destined to be realized. When she woke later thanusual the next morning, with a queer feeling of not knowing where she wasnor what had happened, the storm was still raging furiously. The streetbeneath her windows was piled high with impassable drifts, which weregetting higher every minute, while on the opposite side a narrow strip ofroadway was as clean as if it had been swept with the proverbial newbroom. It was snowing so hard that Betty could not see to the corner ofthe street, and the wind was blowing a gale.

"I don't care," said Betty philosophically. "Here goes for seeing NewYork in a blizzard. I've always wanted to know what it was like." And shebegan making energetic preparations for breakfast.

When she got down-stairs she found a hasty note from her friend of theday before, explaining that her son was worse and she had gone as earlyas possible to the hospital. So Betty breakfasted in solitary state onrolls and coffee,--for her exchequer was beginning to suffer from theunexpected demands that she had made upon it,--paid her bill, and bag inhand sallied forth to meet the storm. Before she had plowed her way tothe nearest corner, she decided that a blizzard in New York was no joke.While she waited there in the teeth of the wind, bracing herself againstit as it blew her hair in her eyes, whipped her skirt about her ankles,and swept the snow, sharp and cutting as needle-points, pitilesslyagainst her cheeks, she was more than half minded to give up seeing Mr.Blake altogether and go straight to the station. But it was not Betty'sway to give up. She brushed back her flying hair, held up her muff asprotection against the wind, and when her car finally arrived, tumbled onwith a sigh of relief and then a laugh all to herself at the absurdity ofthe whole situation.

"Mr. Blake will want to laugh too when he sees me," she thought, "andperhaps that will be a good beginning."

In this cheerful mood Betty presently arrived at the door of "The Quiver"office. She made a wry face as she shook the snow out of her furs,straightened her hat and smoothed her hair. It was too bad to have to goin looking like a fright, after all the pains she had taken to wear hermost becoming clothes, so as to look, and to feel, as impressive aspossible. As a matter of fact, she had never looked prettier than when,having done her best to repair the ravages of the wind, she stood waitinga moment longer to get her breath and decide how she should ask for Mr.Blake and what she should say when she was summoned into his awfulpresence. Her cheeks were glowing with the cold, her eyes bright withexcitement, and her hair blown into damp little curls that were far morebecoming than any more studied arrangement would have been. Mr. RichardBlake would indeed be difficult to please if he failed to find hercharming.

She gave a final pat to her hair, loosened her furs, and knocked boldlyon the office door. There was no answer. Betty had reached out her handto knock again when it occurred to her that people who came to herfather's office walked right in. So she carefully opened the door andstepping just inside, closed it again after her. She found herself in abig, bare room, with three or four desks near the long windows and atable by the door. Only one desk was occupied--the one in the farthestcorner of the room. The young man sitting behind it--he was very youngindeed, smooth-shaven, with expressionless, heavy-lidded eyes, and amouth that drooped cynically at the corners,--barely glanced at hisvisitor, and then dropped his eyes once more to the papers on his desk.Betty waited a moment, while he wrote rapidly on the margin of one sheetwith a blue pencil, and then, seeing that he apparently intended to go onreading and writing indefinitely, she gave a deprecating little cough.

"Is Mr. Richard Blake in?" she asked.

"Yes," answered the young man behind the desk, without so much asglancing in her direction.

"Can--may I see him, please?"

"You can," returned the young man, emphasizing the word can in what Bettythought an extremely disagreeable way.

He made no move to go and get Mr. Blake, and Betty, knowing nothing elseto do, awaited his pleasure in silence.

"Is it so very important as all this?" asked the young man at last,tossing aside his papers and coming toward Betty with disconcertingsuddenness. "You know," he went on, "I can't possibly read it to-day. I'mdesperately busy. I shall put it in a pigeon-hole and I shan't look at itfor weeks perhaps. So I can't see that it was worth your while to comeout in a storm like this to bring it to me."

The young man nodded. "I am," he said, "but pray how did you arrive atyour conclusion--so late?"

"Because," said Betty promptly, "you talk exactly as your letters sound.""That's interesting," said the young man. "How do they sound?"

"I mean," said Betty, blushing at her own temerity, "that they are hardto understand."

The young man appeared to be considering this remark with greatseriousness. "That implies," he began at last very slowly, "that you musthave had either a letter of acceptance or a personal note of refusal from'The Quiver' So perhaps your story is worth coming out in a blizzard tobring after all. Anyway, since you have brought it out in a blizzard,I'll just glance over it, if you care to wait."

Betty stared at Mr. Richard Blake in growing bewilderment. "I think youmust have mistaken me for some one else," she said at last. "You don'tknow me at all, Mr. Blake, and you never wrote to me. The letter that Isaw was written to some one else."

"Indeed! And am I also mistaken in supposing that you have brought me astory for 'The Quiver'?"

"I brought you a story for 'The Quiver'!" gasped Betty. Then all at onceshe took in the situation and laughed so merrily that even the blase,young editor of "The Quiver" was forced to smile a little in sympathy. "Isee now," she said, when she could speak. "You thought I was a writer--anauthoress. I suppose that most of the people who come to see an editorare authors, aren't they?"

"Yes," said the young man gravely. "The only possible reason that hasever brought a pretty young woman to 'The Quiver' office is the vain hopethat because I have seen that she is pretty, I shall like her storybetter than I otherwise would."

"Well," said Betty, too intent upon coming to the point to be eitherannoyed or amused by Mr. Blake's frank implication, "I haven't come abouta story. Or--that is, I have too. I came to see you about EleanorWatson's story--the one that is so like 'The Lost Hope' in the November'Quiver.'"

"Indeed!" The young man's face grew suddenly sombre again. "Won't youhave a seat?" He led the way back to his desk, placing a chair for Bettybeside his own. "Let us make a fair start," he said, as he took his seat."You mean the story that was copied from 'The Quiver,' I suppose."

"Yes." Betty hesitated, wondering if she was being led into some damagingconfession. But she had not come to palter with the truth. "I'm afraidthere is no doubt that it was copied from 'The Quiver,' Mr. Blake."

"Did you know that it was a better story than the one in 'The Quiver'?"

[Illustration: "LET US MAKE A FAIR START," HE SAID]

Betty's eyes sparkled with pleasure. "Do you really think so?" she askedeagerly. "I'm so glad, because I did, too, only I was afraid I might beprejudiced. But you wouldn't be." Betty stopped in confusion, for Mr.Blake had abruptly turned his back upon her, and was staring out thenearest window at the mist of flying snow.

There was a long pause, or at least it seemed oppressively long to Betty,who had no idea what it meant. Then "To whom have I the honor ofspeaking?" asked Mr. Blake in the queer, sarcastic tone that had annoyedBetty earlier in the interview.

As briefly as possible Betty explained who she was, and why she had comeas special envoy from the editors. She was relieved when Mr. Blake turnedback from his survey of the landscape with another faint suggestion of asmile flickering about his grim mouth.

"You relieve me immensely, Miss Wales," he said. "I was quite sure youwere not an editor of the 'Argus,' because you seemed so totallyunfamiliar with the machinery of literary ventures; and so I supposed, orat least I feared, that Miss Watson had come to speak for herself."

Betty flushed angrily. "Why, Mr. Blake, do I look--"

"No, you don't in the least," Mr. Blake interrupted her hastily. "Butunfortunately, you must admit, appearances are sometimes deceitful. Nowsuppose that your friend Miss Watson had come herself. Does she look oract like the sort of person that she has shown herself to be?"

Betty smiled brightly. "Of course not," she said. "She doesn't at all.But then she isn't that sort of person. I mean she never will be again.If she was, I can tell you that I shouldn't be here. It's just becauseshe's so splendid when she thinks in time and tries to be nice, andbecause she hasn't any mother and never had half a chance that I'm sorryfor her now. And besides, it's certainly punishment enough to see thatstory in the 'Argus,' and know she didn't write it, and to get intoDramatic Club partly because of it, and so have that spoiled for her too,and not to be able to let her family be one bit proud of her. Don't yousee that an open disgrace wouldn't mean any more punishment? It wouldonly make it harder for her to be fair and square again. It isn't as ifshe didn't care. She hates herself for it, Mr. Blake, I know she does."

Betty paused for breath and Mr. Richard Blake took the opportunity tospeak. "What, may I ask, is the Dramatic Club?"

"Oh, a splendid literary club that some of the nicest girls in collegebelong to," explained Betty impatiently, feeling that the question wasnot much to the point.

"Do you belong to it?" demanded Mr. Blake.

"Oh, no," said Betty, with a laugh. "I'm not bright enough. I hate tostick to things long enough to learn them."

"That's unfortunate, because I was hoping you were a member," said Mr.Blake, inconsequently. "But to return to the story, do you think thatMiss Watson was so very much to blame for copying it?"

"Of course I do," said Betty, indignantly, wondering what Mr. RichardBlake could possibly be driving at now.

"But consider," he pursued. "Miss Watson is a very clever girl, isn'tshe?"

"Yes, indeed" assented Betty, eagerly.

"She finds this story--an unusual story, rather badly written, with avery weak ending. It strikes her as having possibilities. She puts on theneeded touches,--the finish, the phrasing and an ending that is almost astroke of genius. Isn't the story hers?"

Betty waited a moment. "No, Mr. Blake," she said decidedly, "it isn't.Those little changes don't make any difference. She took it from 'TheQuiver.'"

"But how about Shakespeare's plays? Every one of them has a borrowedplot. Shakespeare improved it, added incidents and characters, fused thewhole situation in the divine fire of his genius. But some characters andthe general outline of the plot he borrowed. We don't say he stole them.We don't call him a plagiarist, Miss Wales."

"I don't know about that," said Betty, doubtfully. "I never understoodabout Shakespeare's plots; but I suppose it was different in those days.Lots of things were. And besides he was a regular genius, and I know thatwhat he did hasn't anything to do with Eleanor. She oughtn't to havecopied a story. I don't see how she could do it; but I wish you couldfeel that it was right to overlook it."

"Miss Wales," said Mr. Blake, abruptly, "I'm going to tell you something.I don't care a snap of my finger for Miss Watson. I don't really believeshe's worth much consideration, though her having a friend who will goaround New York for her on a day like this seems to indicate thecontrary. But what I'm particularly interested in is the moral tone ofHarding College. That's a big thing, a thing worth thought and effort andpersonal sacrifice to maintain. Now tell me frankly, Miss Wales, howwould the Harding girls as a whole look at this matter?"

"If you knew any," returned Betty, swiftly, "you wouldn't ask. Of coursethey'd feel just the way I do."

"Perhaps even the way I do?"

"Y-yes," admitted Betty, grudgingly. "But I believe I could bring themround," she added with a mischievous smile.

"Then how did Miss Watson happen to do such a thing?"

"Because," explained Betty, earnestly, "she doesn't feel the way the restof the girls do about such things. I'm awfully fond of her, but I noticedthe difference almost the first time I met her. Last year she--oh, therewas nothing like this," added Betty, quickly, "and after she saw how theother girls felt, she changed. But I suppose she couldn't change all atonce, and so she did this. But she isn't a typical Harding girl, indeedshe isn't, Mr. Blake."

"And yet she is a member of the Dramatic Club," said Mr. Blake, taking upa telegram from his desk.

"Don't you suppose she wishes she wasn't?" inquired Betty.

Mr. Blake made no answer. "Well, Miss Wales," he said, at last, "I fancywe've talked as much about this as is profitable. I'm very glad to haveseen you, but I'm sorry that you found us in such disorder. The officeboy is stuck in the drifts over in Brooklyn, and my assistant and thestenographer are snowed up in Harlem. I only hope you won't get snowed inanywhere between here and Harding. You're going back to-day, you said?"

Betty nodded. "And I should like--"

"To be sure," Mr. Blake took her up. "You would like to know my answer.Well, Miss Wales, I really think you deserve it, too; but as it happens,I find I'm going up to Harding next week, and I want to look over theground for myself,--see what I think about the moral tone of things, youknow."

"You're coming up to Harding!" said Betty, ruefully. "Then I needn't havecome down here at all."

"Oh, but I didn't know it till to-day," explained Mr. Blake, soothingly."I got the telegram while I was breakfasting this morning. I can'ttelegraph my answer, because the wires are all down, so you might tellthem I've written, or you might post my answer for me in Harding. I havethe greatest confidence in your ability to get through the drifts, MissWales."

"Are you"--Betty hesitated--"are you coming up about this, Mr. Blake?"

For answer he passed her the telegram. It was an invitation from thenewly-elected president of the Dramatic Club--Beatrice Egerton had goneout of office at midyears--to lecture before an open meeting of thesociety a week from the following Saturday.

"Oh, I'm not much of one," returned Mr. Blake, easily. "I suspect thatthe man they had engaged couldn't come, and Miss Stuart--you know her, Ipresume--who's an old friend of mine, suggested me as a forlorn hope. Yousee," he added, "'The Quiver' is a new thing and doesn't go everywhereyet, as your friend Miss Watson was clever enough to know; but before Ibegan to edit it, I used to write dramatic criticisms for the newspapers.Some people didn't like my theories about the stage and the right kind ofplays and the right way of acting them; so it amuses them now to hear melecture and to think to themselves 'How foolish!' 'How absurd!' as Italk."

Betty laughed again. "I shall if I can get an invitation," she said. "Isuppose it's an invitation affair."

"And Miss Watson will be there?"

Betty nodded. "Unless, of course, she knows that you are the editor of'The Quiver.'"

"She won't," said Mr. Blake, "unless you or the editors of the 'Argus'tell her. Miss Stuart doesn't know, and she is probably the only otherperson up there who's ever heard of me. Good-bye, Miss Wales, until nextweek, Saturday."

Betty got her bag from the elevator boy, into whose keeping she hadtrustfully confided it, and went out into the snow. She was very muchafraid that she had not done her full duty. Dorothy had told her to besure to pin Mr. Blake down to something definite. Well, she had tried to,but she had not succeeded. As she thought over the interview, she couldnot remember that she had said anything very much to the point. Itseemed, indeed, as if they had talked mostly about other things; and yettoward the last Mr. Blake's manner had been much more cordial, if thatmeant anything. Anyway it was all over and done with now, and quiteuseless. Dorothy and Beatrice and Frances could do their own talking nextweek. And--she had stood on the corner for ten minutes and still therewas no car in sight. A few had crawled past on their way to the Battery,but none had come back. It was frightfully cold. Betty stamped her feet,slapped her arms, warmed first one aching ear and then the other. Stillno car. A diminutive newsboy had stopped by her side, and in despair sheappealed to him.

"Isn't there some other way to get up town?" she asked. "These cars musthave stopped running, and I've got to get to the Central station."

"Take de L to de bridge and den de Subway. Dat ain't snowed in,"suggested the little newsboy. "C'n I carry your bag, lady?"

It was only a few blocks, but it seemed at least a mile to Betty, toocold and tired to enjoy the tussle with the wind any longer. When she hadstumbled up the long flight of stairs and dropped herself and her bag inthe nearest corner of the waiting train, she could scarcely have takenanother step.

The Central station, like the whole city, wore a dejected, desertedappearance. Yes, there would be a train for Harding some time, a guardassured Betty. He could not say when it would start. Oh, it had been dueto start at ten-thirty, and it was now exactly twelve-five. There wasnothing to do but wait. So Betty waited, dividing her time between "TheCanterbury Tales"--she had not money enough to dare to waste any on amagazine--and a woman, who was also waiting for the belated ten-thirty.Her baby was ill, she told Betty; she feared it would die before shecould get to it. Betty's own weariness and discouragement sank intoinsignificance beside her companion's trouble, and in trying to reassureher she became quite cheerful herself.

At half past eleven that night Madeline Ayres heard something bangagainst her window and looked out to find Betty Wales standing in thedrifts, snowballing the front windows of the Belden House with animpartiality born of despair.

"I thought I should never wake any one up," she said, when Madeline hadunlocked the door and let her into the grateful warmth of the hall. "Thebell wouldn't ring and I was so afraid out there, and I've been ten hourscoming from New York, and I'm starved, Madeline."

When, after having enjoyed a delicious, if not particularly digestiblesupper of coffee and Welsh rarebit in Madeline's room, Betty crept softlyto her own, and turned up the gas just far enough to undress by, Helenwoke and sat straight up in bed.

"Helen, were you ever in New York in a blizzard?" enquired Betty, busilyunlacing her shoe-strings.

"No," said Helen. "Did it take out the curl?"

"Would it take out the curl!" repeated Betty scornfully. "It would takeout the curliest curl that ever was in thirty seconds. It was perfectlyawful. But, Helen, don't say anything about it, but I didn't go to NewYork for that."

"Oh!" said Helen.

The next day Betty woke up with a splitting headache and a sore throat.The day after the doctor came and called it a mild case of grippe. It wasa week before she felt like playing basket-ball, and that very day theteams were chosen and Babbie had the position as sub-centre that Bettyhad coveted. One thing she gained by being ill. By the time she was ableto be up and out even Mary Brooks, with her "satiable curiosity," hadforgotten to ask why she went to New York.

CHAPTER XIV

A DISTINGUISHED GUEST

"It's going to be lots of fun. They can't any of them act at all, ofcourse, and their plays are the wildest things, Babe says. She and Bobwent once last winter. This one is called 'The Hand of Fate'--doesn'tthat sound thrilling? I say, Betty, I think you might be a true sport andcome along. You know you don't care a straw about 'The Tendencies of theModern Drama.'"

Katherine Kittredge sat cross-legged on Betty's couch, with Betty'sentire collection of pillows piled comfortably behind her back, while sheheld forth with eloquent enthusiasm upon the charms of the "ten-twenty-thirty" cent show which was giving its final performance that evening atthe Harding opera house.

"I don't know anything about them, so how can I tell whether I care ornot?" retorted Betty, who was sitting before her desk engaged in adesperate effort to bring some semblance of order out of the chaos thatlittered its shelf and pigeon-holes.

"Well, even if you do care, you can probably read it all up in somebook," continued Katherine. "And, besides," she added briskly. "you wouldget a lot of points to-night. Isn't 'The Hand of Fate' a modern drama, Ishould like to know?"

Betty gave a sudden joyous exclamation. "Why, I'm finding all the thingsI've lost, Katherine. Here's my pearl pin that I thought the sneakthieves must have stolen. I remember now that I put it into an envelopeto take down to be cleaned. And,"--joy changing abruptly to despair,--"here's my last week's French exercise, that I hunted and hunted for, andfinally thought I must have given to some one to hand in for me. Do yousuppose mademoiselle will ever believe me?"

Katherine chuckled. "She would if she knew your habits better. Nowlisten, Betty. Nita's coming to-night, and Babe and Babbie--Bob would,only she doesn't dare cut the lecture when she's just gone into DramaticClub--and Rachel and Roberta, and I've about half persuaded Mary Brooks.We're going to sit in the bald-headed row and clap all the hero's tenorsolos and sob when the heroine breaks his heart, and hiss the villain.How's that for a nice little stunt?"

"I just love ten-cent plays," admitted Betty, obviously weakening.

"Then come on," urged Katherine.Betty shook her head. "No, I don't believe I will this time. You seeEmily asked me to the lecture, and I accepted."

"Well, so did most of us accept," argued Katherine. "You needn't think weweren't asked. Emily won't care. Just give your ticket away, so therewon't be too many vacant seats, and come along."

"But you see," explained Betty, "I really do want to hear the lecture,and I can go off on a lark with you girls almost any time."

"I never knew you to be so keen about a lecture before," said Katherineindignantly. "I believe Helen Adams is turning you into a regular dig."

"Don't worry," laughed Betty. "You see one reason why I--"

There was a tap on the door, and without waiting for an answer to herknock Eleanor Watson entered. She was apparently in the best of spirits;there was no hint in face or manner of the weariness and nervousdepression that had been so evident at the time of Jim's visit.

"Have you both tickets for Mr. Blake's lecture?" she asked with acareless little nod for Katherine. "I have one left and Beatrice has one,and she sent me out hunting for victims. I've asked you once already,haven't I, Betty?"

"Yes, you did," said Betty, "but Emily asked me before that."

"And I'm going to 'The Hand of Fate,'" said Katherine stiffly, picking upa book from the table and turning over its pages with an air of studiedindifference. She had no intention of being patronized by Eleanor Watson.

"Oh, we're not worrying," returned Eleanor loftily. "The subject is soattractive"--Katherine winked at Betty from behind the shelter of herbook. "And then Miss Stuart knows Mr. Blake, and she says that he's asplendid speaker. Miss Stuart is ill to-day, so Miss Ferris is going tohave Mr. Blake up to dinner. Of course we Hilton House girls aredreadfully excited about that."

"Of course," said Betty, with a little gasp of dismay which neither ofher friends seemed to notice.

"Miss Ferris has asked the Dramatic Club girls to sit at her table," wenton Eleanor impressively, "and she wants me to be on her other side, rightopposite Mr. Blake. Just think of that!"

"Splendid!" said Betty, feeling like a traitor. And yet what else couldshe say, and what difference would it make, since Eleanor did not knowthat Mr. Blake was the editor of "The Quiver," and Mr. Blake, in thegeneral confusion of introductions, would probably not catch Eleanor'sname.

"I hope you know a good deal more about the tendencies of the moderndrama than I do," said Katherine drily, "if you're in as deep as allthat." She slid off the couch with a jerk. "Good-bye, Betty. Are you sureyou won't change your mind?"

"I guess not this time, Katherine," said Betty, following her guest tothe door.

Eleanor went off too, after a moment, and Betty was left free to bestowher undivided attention upon the rearrangement of her desk. But evenseveral "finds" quite as important and surprising as the pearl pin andthe French theme did not serve to concentrate her thoughts upon her ownaffairs. The absorbing question was, what did Mr. Blake mean to do, andhow would a dinner with Eleanor in the seat opposite affect hisintentions? He had said that he wasn't interested in Eleanor, but hecouldn't help being influenced by what she said and did, if he knew whoshe was. For the hundredth time Betty questioned, did Eleanor deserve theconsideration that was being asked for her? Was it fair to set aside thegay, self-absorbed Eleanor of to-day in favor of the clinging, repentantEleanor of the week before? Why, yes, she thought, it must be fair tojudge a person at her best, if you wanted her to be her best. She sighedover the perplexities of life, and then she sighed again, because of hertiresome desk and the Saturday afternoon that was slipping away so fast.It was half-past four already, and at five she had promised to meetMadeline Ayres in the college library for a walk before dinner.

She put the papers that she had sorted into their proper pigeon-holes,swept the rest of the litter into a pile for future consideration, andmade a hasty toilette, reflecting that she should have to dress againanyway for the lecture. As she put on her hat, she noticed the ruffledplume and smoothed it as best she could. "That blizzard!" she thoughtruefully. Reminded again of Mr. Blake, she wondered if he had taken anearly train from New York. If so he must have reached Harding long ago.Perhaps he was closeted with the editors--Frances hadn't heard from himabout an interview when Betty saw her last. Or perhaps he wasinvestigating the moral tone of the college. Betty wondered smilingly howhe would go about it, and looked up to find Mr. Richard Blake himselfstrolling slowly toward her from the direction of the front gateway. Atthe same instant he saw her and came quickly forward, his hat in onehand, the other stretched out for Betty to take.

"So you didn't get stuck in the snow," he said, gravely.

"Not so deep that I had to stay stuck for a week," laughed Betty."Haven't the office-boy and the stenographer got out yet?"

"Yes, but they didn't have so far to go," returned Mr. Blake, calmly."May I walk on with you?"

"Of course," agreed Betty, "but you weren't going my way, were you?"

Mr. Blake smiled his slight, cynical smile. "To tell the truth, MissWales, I haven't the least idea which way I am going--or which way Iought to be. I'm supposed to turn up for five o'clock tea with one MissRaymond, who lives at a place called the Davidson House. My friend MissStuart is ill, and I escaped the escort of a committee by wickedlyhinting that I knew my way about."

"Well," said Betty, "you were going the right way when I met you. TheDavidson is straight down at the other end of that row of brick houses."

"Thank you," said Mr. Blake, making no move to follow Betty's directions."I detest teas, and I'm going to be as late as I dare. But perhaps Ishall be in your way."

Betty explained that she was bound for the college library to meet afriend.

"Ah," said Mr. Blake, "I think I should like to see that library. Youknow I have theories about libraries as well as about plays. Is this anice one?"

"Of course," said Betty. "Everything at Harding is nice. Don't you thinkso?"

Mr. Blake shook his head uncertainly.

"I hardly feel competent to speak of everything yet, Miss Wales."

"Well, how about the moral tone?" inquired Betty demurely. She had afeeling that more direct questions would not help Eleanor's cause.

Mr. Blake shook his head again. "I haven't gone very far with that yet,Miss Wales. I mean to make them talk about it at the tea."

They had climbed the stairs to the library and Betty pushed back theswinging doors and stepped inside, wondering vaguely whether she shouldcall the librarian or take Mr. Blake from alcove to alcove herself, whenMadeline Ayres looked up from her book, and catching sight of themstarted forward with a haste and enthusiasm which the occasion, Bettythought, hardly warranted.

"I'm afraid I don't know enough about the books to take you around," shewas saying to Mr. Blake, when Madeline descended precipitately upon themand, paying not the slightest attention to Betty, said in a loud whisperto Mr. Blake, "Dick, come outside this minute, where we can shake hands."

"Come on, Miss Wales," whispered Mr. Blake. "It will be worth seeing,"and Betty, not knowing what else to do, followed him into the hall.

"Why, Dick Blake," Madeline went on enthusiastically, "you don't know howgood it seems to see one of the old Paris crowd again. Have you forgottenhow we used to hunt chocolate shops together, and do the Latin Quarter atnight, and teach my cousins American manners?"

"Hardly," laughed Mr. Blake. "We were a pair of young wretches in thosedays, Madeline. But I thought you were all for art and Bohemia. What onearth are you doing up here?"

"Completing my education," returned Madeline calmly. "The family suddenlydiscovered that I was dreadfully ignorant. What are you doing up hereyourself, Dick?"

"To be exact, Madeline," interposed Mr. Blake, "this is only our secondmeeting, and of course Miss Wales didn't want to stand for me in thecritical eyes of the Harding public."

"Well, but--" Madeline looked from one to the other sharply. "Dick, whomare you writing for now?" she demanded.

"For myself. I'm running a magazine."

"'The Quiver'?"

Mr. Blake nodded. "Yes, have you seen it? I've sent one or two numbers toyour father on the chance of their finding him in some far corner of theearth."

"So that's it," said Madeline enigmatically, ignoring the question. "NowI understand. I--well, the point is, Dick, do whatever Betty Wales wantsyou to. You may depend upon it that she knows what she's about.Everything she tells you will be on the straight."

Mr. Richard Blake threw back his head and laughed a hearty, boyish laugh."You haven't changed a bit, Madeline," he said. "You expect me to be yourhumble chessman and no questions asked, exactly as you did in the olddays. I can't promise what you want now," he added soberly, "but Iheartily subscribe to what you say about Miss Wales. See here"--hereached hastily for his watch--"I was going to a tea, wasn't I? Do I dareto cut it out?"

Betty hesitated and looked at Madeline, who shook her head decidedly."Never. This isn't Bohemia, you know. Run along, Dick. I'll see you to-night if I can get a chance, and if not you'll surely be round atEaster?"

"Rather," said Mr. Richard Blake, striding hurriedly down the hall.

Madeline watched him go with a smile. "Nice boy," she said laconically."We used to have jolly times together, when he was Paris correspondentfor the something or other in New York. Have we time to take our walk,Betty?"

"Of course," said Madeline coolly. "He'll keep you on tenter-hooks aslong as he can, but his bark is always worse than his bite, and he'llcome round in the end."

"Oh, I hope so," said Betty anxiously.

Madeline smiled lazily down at her. "It's no good worrying, anyhow," shesaid, "You can't pursue him to his tea. Besides, ten minutes before youmet him you'd almost decided that it would be better to let the wholething out, and be done with it."

"Madeline," demanded Betty in amazement, "how do you guess things?"

"Never mind how," laughed Madeline. "Come and dress for the lecture."

Betty answered Helen's eager questions about the discovery of the pearlpin in absent-minded monosyllables. After all, things were turning outbetter than she had hoped. Indirectly at least the trip to New York hadcounted in Eleanor's favor. She need not reproach herself any longer withcarelessness in letting Madeline into the secret, and she could feel thatit was not for nothing that she had lost her chances of being on the"sub" team.

As she entered the lecture hall that evening with Helen and Alice Waite,Dorothy King, who was standing by the ticket taker, accosted her.

"I wanted to tell you that Christy is coming back before long," she said.

Having drawn her aside on that flimsy excuse, Dorothy grew suddenlyearnest.

"What's he going to do, Betty?" she demanded.

"Why, I don't know," said Betty, blushing at thought of Madeline, "anymore than you do. Haven't you seen him?"

"No," explained Dorothy. "He wrote to say that it would be wasting timeto argue any more--that he was sure he understood our point of view fromyou, and now he meant to see for himself and decide."

"Then I suppose he'll tell Miss West tonight."

"We hoped he'd told you this afternoon."

"How did you know I'd seen him?" inquired Betty evasively.

"Eleanor Watson told me that she saw you together in the library."

Betty gave a little cry of dismay, then checked it. "But she doesn't knowwho he is," she said.

"Yes, she does know now," said Dorothy quickly.

"How?"

"He told her himself. He was at dinner this evening with Miss Ferris, youknow. Eleanor sat up at his end of the table looking like a perfectqueen, and she talked awfully well too--she is certainly a very brilliantgirl. He talked to her a good deal during dinner and as we were leavingthe table he asked Miss Ferris again who she was."

"What did he say when she told him?"

"He just said 'Indeed!' in that queer, drawling voice of his. AfterwardMiss Ferris made coffee for us, and what do you suppose he did? He beganto ask everybody in the room about the code of honor at the college."

"Well?"

"After one or two of the girls had said what they thought, he turnedstraight to Eleanor Watson. 'And you, Miss Watson,' he said, 'what do youthink? Is this fine moral feeling strong enough to stand a strain? Wouldyou be willing to risk one thoroughly dishonest student not to overthrowit?' She got awfully white, and I could see her cup shake in her hand,but she said very quietly, 'I quite agree with what has already beensaid, Mr. Blake.'"

"And then?"

"Then he said 'Indeed!' again. But when the girls got up to go and he bidthem each good-bye, he managed to keep Eleanor on some pretext aboutwanting to finish an argument that they'd begun at dinner, Miss Ferriskept me to know about a Hilton House girl who was down at the infirmarywhen I was and finally had to be sent home; and as we stood talking atthe other side of the room, I distinctly heard Mr. Blake say, 'The editorof "The Quiver," Miss Watson.'"

"Did Miss Ferris hear it too?"

"Probably not. Anyway it wouldn't mean anything to her. The next minuteEleanor Watson was gone, and then I went too. Betty, we must run backthis minute. He's going to begin."

As far as her information about "The Tendencies of the Modern Drama" wasconcerned, Betty Wales might quite as well have been enjoying herself at"The Hand of Fate." She sat very still, between two girls she had neverseen before, and apparently listened intently to the speaker. As a matterof fact, she heard scarcely a word that he said. Her thoughts and hereyes were fixed on Eleanor, who was sitting with Beatrice Egerton, wellup on the middle aisle. Like Betty, she seemed to be absorbed infollowing the thread of Mr. Blake's argument. She laughed at his jokes,applauded his clever stories. But there was a hot flush on her cheeks anda queer light in her eyes that bore unmistakable evidence to the strugglegoing on beneath her forced attention.

After the lecture Betty was waiting near the door for Helen and Alice,when Eleanor brushed past her.

Once in her own room she locked the door and gave free rein to the furyof passion and remorse that held her in its thrall. Jim's visit hadbrought out all her nobler impulses. She had caught a glimpse of herselfas she would have looked in his eyes, and the scorn of her act that shehad felt at intervals all through the fall and winter--that had preventedany real enjoyment of her stolen honors and kept her from writing homeabout them,--had deepened into bitter self-abnegation. But Jim had comeand gone. He still believed in her, for he did not know what she haddone. Nobody knew. Nobody would ever know now. It was absurd to feardiscovery after all these months. So Eleanor had argued, throwing careand remorse to the winds, and resolving to forget the past and enjoy lifeto the full.

Then, just at the moment of greatest triumph, had come Mr. Blake'sstartling announcement. He had not told her what he had done or meant todo, nor how he had found out about the story, nor who shared his secret;and Eleanor had been too amazed and frightened to ask. Now, in thesolitude of her room, she drew her own swift conclusions. It was a plotagainst her peace of mind, his coming up to lecture. Who had arranged it?Who indeed but Betty Wales? She knew Mr. Blake intimately, it seemed, andshe had such horribly strict ideas of honesty. She would never forgiveher own sister for cheating. "She must have seen 'The Quiver' on mytable," thought Eleanor, "and then to use it against me like this!" Nodoubt she or Mr. Blake had told that hateful Madeline Ayres, who knew himtoo. No doubt all the editors had been told. It was to be hoped thatDorothy King, with her superior airs, realized that it was mostly herfault. A dull flush spread over Eleanor's pale face, as it suddenlyflashed upon her that Beatrice Egerton was an editor.

Well, if Beatrice was in the secret, there was no telling how many shehad confided in. Eleanor's devotion to Miss Egerton had been utterlywithout sentiment from the first. She realized perfectly that Beatricewas flippant and unprincipled, swayed only by selfish considerations andby a passion for making a sensation. If she did not mind being associatedwith the story, she would tell it; only regard for her own reputation asEleanor's "backer" might deter her.

Swiftly Eleanor laid her plan. After all, what did it matter who knew?Mr. Blake, Betty and Dorothy, Beatrice--the whole college--what couldthey prove? Nothing--absolutely nothing, unless she betrayed herself. Nodoubt they thought they had brought her to bay, and expected her to makesome sort of confession. They would find there was no getting around herthat way. There was no danger of discovery, so long as she kept her head,and she would never show the white feather. She would write anotherstory--she could do it and she would, too, that very night. But first shewould go back to the Students' Building. The Dramatic Club was giving areception to Mr. Blake and the members of the faculty. She had beenunpardonably stupid to think of missing it.

As she crossed the shadowed space in front of the big building, shecaught sight of three dimly outlined figures clustered about one of thepillars of the portico, and heard Frances West's voice, so sweet andpenetrating as to be quite unmistakable.

"Yes, he leaves it entirely to us," she was saying. "He said he thoughtwe could be trusted to know what was best."

"I wish he hadn't made the condition that no one should say anything toher," objected a second speaker. "It doesn't seem to me quite wise to letthings just drift along the same as ever."

"Nonsense," broke in a third voice, sharp with irritation. "You knowperfectly well--"

Eleanor had walked as slowly as she dared. Now there was nothing for itbut to open the door without waiting to find out the identity of the lasttwo speakers, or risk being caught eaves-dropping.

She hurried on up the stairs to the society rooms on the second floor,and devoted herself for the rest of the evening to the dullest and mostunpopular members of the faculty with an ardor that won her the heart-felt gratitude of the president of the club.

"I can be agreeable," she thought, as she sat down at her desk an hourlater. "I can do whatever I make up my mind to. I'll show them that I'mnot going to 'drift along!'"

It was six o'clock in the morning when, stiff and heavy-eyed, she turnedoff her light and crept into bed.

"I've driven a coach and four through their precious ten o'clock rule,"she thought, "but I don't care. I've finished the story."

The story was a little sketch of western life, with characters andincidents drawn from an experience of Jim's. Eleanor was an excellentcritic of her own work, and she knew that this was good; not so unusual,perhaps, as the other one had been, but vivid, swinging, full of life andcolor, far above the average of student work. It should go to MissRaymond the first thing in the morning. She would like it, and the"Argus" perhaps would want it--Eleanor closed her tired eyes, and in amoment was fast asleep.

CHAPTER XV

DISAPPOINTMENTS

It was the day of the great basket-ball game. In half an hour more thegymnasium would be opened to the crowd that waited in two long, sinuouslines, gay with scarfs, banners and class emblems, outside the doors. Nowand then a pretty girl, dressed all in white, with a paper hat, green oryellow as the case might be, and an usher's wand to match, darted out ofone of the campus houses and fluttered over to the back door of thegymnasium. The crowd watched these triumphal progresses languidly. Itsinterest was reserved for the other girls, pig tailed and in limp-hangingrain-coats, who also sought the back door, but with that absence ofostentation and self-consciousness which invariably marks the trulygreat. The crowd singled out its "heroes in homespun," and one line orthe other applauded, according to the color that was known to be sewed onthe blue sleeve beneath the rain-coat.

The green line was just shouting itself hoarse over T. Reed, who had beenobserved slinking across the apple orchard, hoping to effect her entranceunnoticed, when Eleanor Watson hurried down the steps of the HiltonHouse, carrying a sheet of paper in one hand. Hearing the shouting, sheshrugged her shoulders disdainfully and chose the route to the WestcottHouse that did not lead past the gymnasium doors. As she went up thesteps of the Westcott, she met Jean Eastman coming down, her white skirtsrustling in the wind.

Jean looked at her in surprise. "Why, Eleanor, you're an usher too.Aren't you going to dress? It's half past two this minute."

"Yes," said Eleanor curtly, "I know. I'm not going to usher. I have aheadache. Jean, where is my basket-ball song?"

"How should I know?" said Jean, smoothing the petals of the greenchrysanthemums that were festooned about her wand. "On the paper with therest, isn't it?"

[Illustration: THE GREEN LINE WAS SHOUTING ITSELF HOARSE]

"No," said Eleanor, "it's not. I didn't go to the class 'sing' lastnight, but this noon somebody left a song sheet in my room. You said theychose mine, Jean."

"I said," corrected Jean, "that I thought they chose it. I was on thesong committee, but I didn't go to the meeting. From your description Ithought it must be one of those that Kate said was taken."

Eleanor held out the paper to Jean. "Whose are these?"

Jean glanced hastily down the page. "Why, I don't know," she said, "anymore than you do--except that first one to the tune of 'St. Louis.'" Shehummed a lilting measure or two. "That's our prize song all right, andwho do you think wrote it?"

"Who?" demanded Eleanor fiercely.

"That little Adams girl--the one who rooms with Betty Wales. T. Reed toldme she'd been working on it for weeks."

Eleanor's eyes flashed scornfully. "I should think it ought to be fairlydecent then," she said.

"Well, it's considerably more than fairly decent," said Jean cheerfully."I'm freezing here, Eleanor, and it's late too. Don't bother about yoursong. Come over to the gym. with me and you can go in the back way."

"No, thank you," said Eleanor in frigid tones, and went back as she hadcome.

To be beaten, and by Helen Chase Adams, of all people! It was toohumiliating. Six basket-ball songs had been printed and hers rejected. Nodoubt the other five had been written by special friends of thecommittee. She had depended on Jean to look after hers--although she hadnot doubted for a moment that it would be among the very best submitted--and Jean had failed her.

Worse yet, the story on which she had staked her hopes had come back fromMiss Raymond, with a few words of perfunctory, non-committal criticism.Miss Raymond had not read it to her class, much less sent the "Argus"editors after it.

"Does she know, too?" questioned Eleanor. "Does she think that becauseI've cheated once I can't ever be trusted again, or is it just my luck tohave them all notice the one thing I didn't write and let alone thethings I do?"

It was two weeks since Mr. Blake's lecture, and in that time she hadaccomplished nothing of all that she had intended. Her idea had been tobegin over--to blot out the fact that once she had not played fair, andstarting on a clean sheet, repeat her triumph and prove to herself andother people that her position in college affairs was no higher than shedeserved. But so far she had proved nothing, and every day thedifficulties of her position increased. It was almost more than she couldmanage, to treat the girls whom she suspected of knowing her secret withexactly her accustomed manner. She had not been able to verify hersuspicions except in the case of Beatrice Egerton. There was no doubtabout her. When the two were alone together she scarcely took pains toconceal her knowledge, and her covert hints had driven Eleanor into morethan one outburst of resentment which she bitterly regretted when it wastoo late. It was absolutely impossible to tell about Betty. "She treatsme exactly as she did when Jim was here," reflected Eleanor, "and just asshe did last year, for that matter. If she doesn't know it's noparticular credit to her, and if she does--" Eleanor could not bear theidea of receiving kindness from people who must despise her.

Jean ran on to the gym., shivering in her thin dress, and mutteringsavagely over Eleanor's "beastly temper."

As she passed the sophomore-senior line, one and another of her friendsshouted out gay greetings.

"Hurry up, Jean, or we shall get in before you do."

"You sophomore ushers look like a St. Patrick's Day parade."

"Tell the people in there that their clocks are slow."

"All right," said Jean, hanging on to her unmanageable paper hat.

As she passed the end of the line, Beatrice Egerton detached herself fromit, and followed her around the corner of the gym. "Oh, Miss Eastman,"she coaxed. "Won't you let me go in with you? I shall never get a placeto see anything from way back there in the line."

Jean eyed her doubtfully. She wanted to oblige the great Miss Egerton."I'm afraid all the reserved seats are full by this time," she objected.

"Oh, I don't want a seat," said Beatrice easily. "I'll stand on the stepsof the faculty platform. There's no harm in that, is there?"

"I guess not," said Jean. "Come on."

The doorkeeper had gone up-stairs for a moment, and the meek littlefreshman who had her place only stared when Jean and Miss Egerton ranpast her without exhibiting their credentials.

"Thanks awfully," said Miss Egerton, sitting down on a pile of rugs andmattresses that had been stacked around the fireplace. Jean went off toget her orders from the head usher. There was really nothing to do butwalk around and look pretty, the head usher told her. The rush to thegallery had begun, but the janitors and the night-watchman were managingthat. Of course when the faculty began to come--

"Oh, yes," said Jean, and hurried back to Beatrice.

"Good-looking lot of ushers," she said.

Beatrice nodded. "You have a lot of pretty girls in 19--."

"To say nothing of having the college beauty," added Jean.

"Of course," said Beatrice. "Nobody in college can touch Eleanor Watsonfor looks. There she is now, talking to Betty Wales and Kate Denise."

"No," chuckled Jean, "that's Laura Perkins. Their back views areamazingly alike, but wait till you see Laura's face. No, the lady Eleanorwouldn't come to the game. She's in the sulks."

"Seems to be her chronic state nowadays," said Beatrice. "Talking to heris like walking on a hornet's nest. What's the particular cause ofgrievance to-day?"

"Oh, the committee didn't accept her basket-ball song," said Jean, "and Iwas on the committee."

Beatrice lifted her eyebrows. "She actually had the nerve to write--tohand one in?"

"Oh, that wasn't nervy," said Jean. "The girls wanted her to--l9--isawfully shy on poets. What I don't admire is her taste in fussing becauseit wasn't used."

Beatrice smiled significantly. "Did she tell you about her story?"

"What story?"

"Oh, a new one that she handed in for a theme a week or so ago."

"What about it?"

"Why, Miss Raymond didn't notice it particularly, and Eleanor was fussedto death--positively furious, you know. I was with her when she got itback."

"How funny!" said Jean. "But don't they say that Miss Raymond is prettyapt to like everything a girl does, after she's once become interested? Isuppose Eleanor was taking it easy and depending on that."

Beatrice's face wore its most inscrutable expression. "But, my dear," shesaid, "if you knew all about that other wonderful story--the famousone--"

There was an unusual commotion at the door opposite them. By flower-bedecked ones and twos the faculty had been arriving, and had beenreceived with shouts and songs from the galleries and escorted by excitedushers across the floor to their seats on the stage. Miss Egerton hadstopped in the midst of her sentence to find out whose coming had turnedthe galleries into pandemonium and brought every usher but the phlegmaticJean to the door.

"Oh, it's Prexy and Miss Ferris and Dr. Hinsdale, all in a bunch," shesaid at last. "How inconsiderate of them not to scatter the fireworks!"She turned back to Jean. "As I was saying, if you knew all about thatwonderful story--"

Betty Wales, hurrying to help escort her dear Miss Ferris to theplatform, caught sight of the two on the mattresses, noticed Jean's lookof breathless interest and Beatrice's knowing air, and jumped to exactlythe right conclusion. With a last despairing glance at Miss Ferris sheturned aside from the group of crowding ushers, and dropped down besideJean on the mattings.

"Have you heard the latest news?" she asked, trying to make her toneperfectly easy and natural. "The freshman captain was so rattled that sheforgot to wear her gym. suit. She came in her ordinary clothes. They'vesent an usher back with her to see that she gets dressed right this time.Isn't that killing?"

In her heart she was glad of the interruption. She had said just enoughto pique curiosity. To tell more would have been bad policy all around.Betty Wales had arrived just in the nick of time.

But Jean was naturally disappointed. "Betty Wales," she said, "do youknow what you interrupted just now? Beatrice Egerton was just going totell me the inside facts about Eleanor's story in the 'Argus.'"

"Was she?" said Betty steadily. "If there are any inside facts, as youcall them, don't you think Eleanor is the one to tell you?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Jean carelessly. "Eleanor's so tiresome. Shewants to be the centre of the stage all the time. Shouldn't you thinkshe'd be willing to give other people a little show now?"

"Why, she is," returned Betty vaguely.

"Not much," asserted Jean with great positiveness. "She's sulking in hertent this very minute because the girls aren't singing her basket-ballsong. Anybody who wasn't downright selfish would be glad to have girlslike Helen Adams get a little chance."

"Eleanor's tired and doesn't think," suggested Betty.

"You'd better go down to the door," said the head usher. "The 'green'faculty are coming in swarms."

The game went on much as last year's had done. First one gallery shookwith forbidden applause, then the other. Sophomores sang paeans to theirvictories, freshmen pluckily ignored their mistakes. T. Reed appeared asif by magic here, there, and everywhere. Rachel Morrison played herquiet, steady game at the sophomore basket. Katherine Kittredge, talkingincessantly to the bewildered freshman "home" whom she guarded, battedballs with ferocious lunges of her big fist back to the centre field,where a dainty little freshman with soft, appealing brown eyes, halfhidden under a mist of yellow hair, occasionally managed to foil T.Reed's pursuit and sent them pounding back into the outstretched arms ofa tall, ungainly home who tossed or dropped them--it was hard to tellwhich--into the freshman basket. It was a shame to let her play, thesophomores grumbled. She was a giantess, not a girl. But as the scorepiled up in their favor, they grew more amiable and laughed good-humoredly at the ineffectual attempts of their guards to block thegiantess's goals.

Betty watched it all with keen interest and yet with a certain feeling ofdetachment. It was splendid fun, but what did it matter after all who wonor lost? The freshman centres muffed another ball. Up in the "yellow"gallery she saw a tall girl standing behind a pillar unmistakably winkback the tears. How foolish, just for a game!

It was over at last. Miss Andrews announced the score, congratulatingvictor and vanquished alike on clean, fair play. Betty joined in the madrush around the gym., helped sing to the team and to the freshman teamand finally retired to a quiet corner with Christy Mason, who had comeback to see the game and get a start with her neglected work beforevacation. Betty gave her the Students' Commission key with a little sighof satisfaction.

"It's a good deal of responsibility, isn't it?" she said.

Christy nodded. "If you take it seriously. But then isn't life aresponsibility?"

Helen was sitting alone in their room when Betty got back, her eyesshining like stars, her plain, angular little face alight with happiness.

"I say, Helen," began Betty, hunting for the hat-pins that still fasteneda remnant of her once gorgeous paper hat to her hair, "your song wasgreat. Did the girls tell you?"

"Some of them," said Helen, shyly. "Some of them didn't know I wrote it.One asked me if I knew."

Betty laughed. "Did you tell her?"

"No, I didn't," said Helen, blushing. "I--I wanted to, awfully; but Ithought it would seem queer."

"Well, plenty of them knew," said Betty, mounting a chair to fasten herwand over a picture.

"Of course,"--Helen's tone was apologetic,--it's a very little thing tocare so much about. I suppose you think I'm silly, but you see I workedover it pretty hard, and I don't have so very many things to care about.Now if I were like you--"

"Nonsense!" said Betty, descending suddenly from her lofty perch. "Icouldn't write a line of poetry if I tried from now till Commencement."

"Oh, yes, you could," said Helen, eagerly. "Well, if I were like EleanorWatson then--"

"Helen," said Betty, quickly, "you're not one bit like her."

Helen waited a minute. "Betty," she began again shyly.

"Yes," said Betty, kindly.

"I'm awfully sorry you couldn't have your wish, too."

"My wish!" Betty repeated. "Oh, you mean about being on the team. I don'tmind about that, Helen. I guess I was needed more just where I was."

Helen puzzled over her answer until the supper-bell rang.

Betty's problem stayed with her all through the bustle of last days andon into the Easter vacation. Even then she found only a doubtfulsolution. She had thought that Mr. Blake's decision, of which Dorothy hadtold her as soon as possible, would close the incident of the story. Nowshe saw that the affair was not so easily disposed of. Beatrice Egertonwas an incalculable source of danger, but the chief trouble was Eleanorherself. Somehow her attitude was wrong, though Betty could not exactlytell how. She was in a false position, one that it would be difficult forany one to maintain; and it was making her say and do things that peoplelike Jean, who did not understand, naturally misinterpreted. Why, evenshe herself hated to meet Eleanor now. There was so much to hide and toavoid talking about. And yet it would certainly be worse if everybodyknew. Betty puckered her smooth forehead into rows and rows of wrinklesand still she saw no way out. She thought of consulting Nan, but shecouldn't bear to, when Nan had always been so pessimistic about Eleanor.

It was not until the vacation was over and Betty's train was pulling intoHarding that she had an idea. She gave a little exclamation. "I've gotit!"

"Got what?" demanded her seat-mate, who was a mathematical prodigy andhad been working out problems in calculus all the way from Buffalo.

"Not one of those examples of yours," laughed Betty, "only an idea,--orat least about half an idea."

"I don't find fractions of ideas very useful," said the seat-mate.

"I never said they were," returned Betty irritably.

It had occurred to her that if there was any way to get Eleanor toconfide in Miss Ferris, perhaps matters might be straightened out.

The missing half of the idea, to which Betty had not the faintest clew,was--how could it be done?

CHAPTER XVI

DORA CARLSON'S "SUGARING-OFF"

Dora Carlson pulled back the heavy oak door of the Hilton House andstepped softly into the hall. With bright, darting glances, such as somefrightened wild creature might bestow on an unfamiliar environment, shecrept past the parlor doors and up the stairs. Dora was not naturallytimid, and her life on a lonely farm had made her self-reliant to adegree; but there was something about these big campus houses that awedher--mysterious suggestions of a luxurious and alien existence, ofdelightful festivities and dainty belongings, that stimulated herimagination and made her feel like a lawless intruder if she met any onein the passages.

Of course it was foolish. Nettie Dwight, who lived next door to her onMarket Street, had not a single friend on the campus, and yet she hadbeen into every one of the dwelling houses and explored them all from topto bottom. Where was the harm, she asked. All you had to do was to stepup and open the door, and then walk along as if you knew where you weregoing. When you had seen as much as you wanted to, you could stop infront of some room of which the door stood open so that you could tellfrom the hall that it was empty, and turn around and go away again.Everybody would think that the person you had come to see was out. Itsounded perfectly simple, but Dora had never been anywhere except toEleanor's room at the Hilton House and once, at Betty Wales's invitation,to the Belden.

She hated to hurry through the halls. She would have liked to turn asideand smell the hyacinths that stood in the sunny bay-window of the longparlor; she wanted desperately to read through all the notices on thehouse bulletin-board at the foot of the stairs; but instead she fled upthe two flights and through the corridor, like a criminal seekingsanctuary, and arrived at Eleanor's room in a flurry of breathlesseagerness. The door was open and Eleanor sat by the window, staringlistlessly out at the quiet, greening lawns. The light was full on herface and Dora, who had had only a passing glimpse of her divinity sincebefore the spring vacation, noticed sadly how pale and tired she looked.

"May I come in, Miss Watson?" she asked.

"Of course, but you mustn't call me that," said Eleanor, turning to herwith a charming smile. Beatrice Egerton had said that she should be overin the course of the afternoon, and Eleanor had been dreading her coming.The necessity of keeping up appearances with Beatrice and the rest waswearing Eleanor out. It was a distinct relief to talk to Dora, with whomno artifices were necessary. Whoever else knew her secret, Dora certainlydid not; she was as remote from the stream of college gossip as if shehad lived in another world.

"I am so glad to see that you're resting," said Dora brightly. "I take itas an omen that perhaps you'll be able to do what I want."

"I hope I can," said Eleanor. "What is it?"

"Why, I'm going to have a sugaring-off tonight," announced Doraimpressively, "and I should be very pleased to have you come."

For a moment Eleanor hesitated, then her better nature triumphed. Thiswas the first thing the child had ever asked of her, and she should haveit, even at the cost of some trifling annoyance.

"How nice," she said cordially. "I shall be delighted to come. Just whatis a sugaring-off, Dora?"

Dora laughed gleefully. "It's amazing to me how few people know what itis. I'm not going to tell you the particulars, but I will excite yourinterest by saying that it has to do with maple sugar."

"How did you happen to think of having one?" inquired Eleanor curiously.

"Why, you see," explained Dora, "we have a sugar orchard on our farm.Ohio is a great maple-sugar state, you know."

"Oh!" said Eleanor. "No, I didn't know."

"Sugaring time used to be the delight of my childish heart," went on Doraquaintly. "So many people came out to our farm then. It was quite likeliving in the village and having neighbors. And then I do love maplesugar. My father makes an excellent quality."

"And he's sent you some now?"

"Yes," assented Dora eagerly, "a whole big pailful. I suppose my dearfather thought it would console me for not having been home for my springvacation. It came this morning, and yesterday Mrs. Bryant went to pass aweek with her son in Jersey City, and she told me I could use the kitchenfor a sugar-party if I wanted to while she was gone--I told her that Iwas expecting to have a party--and this is the only night for a week thatNettie Dwight can come, because she teaches in a night-school." Dorapaused for breath.

"Who is Nettie Dwight?" asked Eleanor idly.

"Oh, she is a Market Street girl. There will be three Market Street girlsand you and Miss Wales, if she can come. Miss Wales asked me to a play ather house last fall and I am so glad to have a chance to return it. I wasafraid I never could."

Beatrice could hardly have told why she persisted in inflicting hersociety upon Eleanor Watson. In her shallow way she was fond of her, andshe felt vaguely that considering her own careless code of morals itwould be inconsistent to drop Eleanor now, just because she had followedsimilar standards. At the same time she was angry at what she looked uponas a betrayal of her friendship, and considered that any annoyance shemight inflict on Eleanor was no more than she deserved. As for DoraCarlson, she amused Beatrice, who, being thoroughly self-seeking herself,could not imagine why the exclusive Eleanor should choose to exhibit afreakish tendency toward philanthropy in this one direction. Beatricewould have liked, for the satisfaction there is in solving a puzzle, toget at the root of the matter. Accordingly she always took pains to drawDora out.

"I've met you before this afternoon, Miss Carlson," she said, thumping arefractory pillow into place. "What are you doing up on the campus?"

It was the most casual remark, but Dora answered it with the naivefrankness that was her peculiar charm.

"I am giving out my invitations for a sugaring-off," she said.

"A sugaring-off!" repeated Miss Egerton gaily. "Now I haven't thefaintest idea what that is but it sounds very festive."

Dora looked at her questioningly and then at Eleanor. "Miss Egerton," shesaid at last, "I should be very pleased to have you come too, because youare Eleanor's dear friend."

Beatrice gave a little shriek of amusement. "Are you really going,Eleanor?"

As Dora danced down the Belden House steps a few moments later, her facewas wreathed in smiles. Miss Wales was coming too. They were all coming."I guess my father would be pleased if he could look in on us to-night,"thought the little freshman happily. Then, as the college clock chimedout the hour, her brow wrinkled with anxiety. The kitchen must be swept,--Dora had decided views about Mrs. Bryant's housekeeping,--and the"surprise," which was to eke out the entertainment afforded by thesugaring-off proper, had yet to be prepared. The unaccustomedresponsibilities of hostess weighed heavily upon Dora Carlson as shetraversed the long mile that stretched between the campus and 50 MarketStreet.

It was an odd little party which gathered that night in Mrs. Bryant'sdingy kitchen. The aggressive Nettie Dwight, two hopelessly commonplacesophomores, cousins, from a little town down the river, and Dora composedthe Market Street contingent. They were all very much in awe of Eleanor'sbeauty, and of Beatrice's elaborate gown and more elaborate manner. BettyWales, enveloped in one of Mrs. Bryant's "all-over" kitchen aprons,vigorously stirring the big kettleful of bubbling, odorous syrup, triedher best to put the others at their ease and to make things go, asaffairs at the college always did. But it was no use. Everythingprogressed too smoothly. Nothing burned or boiled over or refused tocook,--incidents which always add the spice of adventure to a chafingdish spread. Nobody had come in a kimono. There was no bed to loll backon, no sociable sparcity of plates, no embarrassing interruptions in theway of heads of uninvited guests poked in the door and apologeticallywithdrawn; and the anxious pucker of hospitality on the face of thelittle hostess imposed an added restraint and formality upon the oddlyassorted company of guests. Beatrice Egerton played with her rings,yawned without dissimulation, and wished she had stayed at home; Eleanorbravely parried Nettie Dwight's incisive questions about "her set"; andBetty, stirring and talking to the cousins and Dora, had time to admireEleanor's self-control and to wonder pityingly if there were many girlsin Harding College so completely "out of it" as these four seemed to be.And yet they were not unhappy; they were enjoying Dora Carlson'ssugaring-off as though it had been a delightful college spread instead ofa dull and dreadful party.

When the biscuits, that Dora had made herself, were done and the sugarboiled to the right consistency, everybody began to brighten up, and therefreshment feature bade fair to be a real success. It was too late inthe spring for snow, so Dora had provided some little cakes of ice onwhich to wax the sugar. They were not quite so good a substitute as mighthave been desired, for they had a fashion of slipping dangerously overthe plates, and then the hot sugar slipped and spread on the ice and hadto be dexterously coaxed to settle down in one place and melt out a coolbed for itself, as it does easily enough in snow. But all this only addedto the interest of the occasion. One sophomore cousin lost her cake ofice on the floor, and she showed more animation than she had in all therest of the evening together, in spite of Betty's valiant efforts. ThenNettie Dwight suggested that they grain part of the sugar, so, wheneverybody had eaten as much as possible of the waxed variety, spread onas many crisp little biscuits as Dora could force upon them, Dora broughtsaucers full of the hot syrup and there was a stirring contest, withresults in the shape of creamy maple candy, which Dora put out to cool,ready to be eaten later.

"And now," she said, with a little quiver of eagerness in her voice,"there is one course more. Look under your plates."

Search revealed a carefully folded square of white paper at each place.Beatrice got hers open first and muttered, "What perfect nonsense!"before Eleanor could stop her with an imploring glance.

"How'd you ever think of it?" giggled one of the cousins. "There's a manin mine all right."

"Oh, I didn't think of it myself," explained Dora, modestly. "I found itin a magazine. I don't suppose any of you see the 'Farmer's FriendlyCounsellor.'"

"No," said Betty, quickly, "I don't believe we do."

"It's a fine magazine," continued Dora, "with quantities of good readingmatter of all kinds. There's always one page for farmers' wives, withrecipes and hints for home dressmakers. Last winter I read about giving aluncheon, and it sounded so pretty that I cut it out, though I neverexpected to use it. Right in the middle of it was one course like thesefortunes, only they were to be put into stuffed peppers, instead ofstuffing, and when the guests took the covers off their peppers, therethey would find their fortunes."

"But Miss Carlson," began Beatrice, impatiently, "don't you see that thewhole point--"

"I like this way just as well," broke in Betty Wales. "What you reallycare about is the fortune, and it doesn't matter whether it's in a pepperor under your plate."

"Not a bit," agreed Eleanor, crumpling up her fortune nervously.

"And now," said Dora, "we'll all read them out loud and see how they fit.I put them around without looking at them, and I didn't know where any ofyou were going to sit."